


Stop the Press

by serephent



Series: Superbat Week 2020 [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (too bad Clark's in a coma at the time), Angst and Feels, Bruce admits he has feelings, Canon-Typical Violence, Continuity What Continuity, Depowered Clark Kent, Established Relationship, M/M, Ma Kent is a force of nature, No children were sacrificed in the making of this fic, Questionable medicine and science for the win!, Serious Injuries, Sexual Assault, SuperBat, Superbat Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent/pseuds/serephent
Summary: The universe can fuck off if it thinks he's going to sit idly by and watch Clark die.Again. There's simply no reality out there in which Bruce will allow the darkness to claim another person he loves. Because hedoeslove Clark and Bruce is going to make damn sure he knows it. Just as soon as he figures out how to save him.——*the assault is purposefully framed so it's safe to skip over and move directly to the next sceneWritten for the Day 6 prompt: Serious Injuries
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Superbat Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850554
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	Stop the Press

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Everyman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339865) by [serephent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent/pseuds/serephent). 



> *The translation for the Kryptonian can be seen via mouse over, and also in the bottom notes.
> 
> **Betas:** Thanks to [Gement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gement), I didn't completely destroy the English language. Thanks to [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt), I instead destroyed Clark and put Bruce through the wringer. This is what happens when [Cattyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8) isn't around to tell us no. 😁

**Stop The Press**

__________________________

  
_**Lex Luthor Arrested** _  
_Clark Kent_

_The D.A.’s office has charged the former president with 120 criminal counts ranging from malfeasance to first-degree murder, most due to his direct involvement in the ‘rain of the supermen’ tragedy on New Year’s Eve._

__________________________

  
_**LexCorp to be dismantled?** _  
_Clark Kent_

_With consumers avoiding LexCorp brands in increasing numbers, the board of directors will vote on breaking up the company, and on selling off profitable divisions to cover their enormous and rising losses._

__________________________

  
_**Lex Luthor Bankrupt** _  
_Clark Kent_

_LexCorp Board of Directors has ousted Luthor, buying out his equity and severing all ties. The company’s value has declined to the point that the buyout will not cover Luthor’s considerable legal debts._

__________________________

Clark whistles to himself as he walks towards Wayne Tower. His parents taught him to never feel good about someone else’s misfortune, but he can’t help it. Not after _finally_ bringing Lex down. And having done it as Clark Kent, not Superman, makes it all the more satisfying. There’s even buzz about a possible Pulitzer for the whole exposé series. So, he doesn't think feeling like he’s on cloud nine, just this once, is unjustified.

“Mister Kent?”

Pulled from his reverie by the gruff voice, he stops. Spotting the man who asked, he pushes his glasses up and says, “Yes, I’m Clark Kent. What—” 

“No struggling, Kent. No noise. Someone wants to talk to you.”

At the feel of the gun in his side, his mouth goes dry. Heartbeat thundering in his ears, he swallows hard and nods. Walking towards the end of a poorly lit alley, Clark wonders if maybe he _should_ have made noise and struggled, gun or not.

“You’ve had a good year, Clark.” Lex steps forward. “Very good. And all those stories about 'the fall of Luthor' have been a big part of it, haven’t they?” 

Held fast by the goons on either side of him, Clark can do nothing to protect himself when Lex knees him in the groin. He can’t process how he’s now on the ground, only that he's curling in on himself, hand between his legs. Clark’s sure he’s never felt worse pain in his life. Not even from kryptonite. Now he understands why Bruce wears an armored codpiece. Certain he’s about to throw his lunch up, Clark forces himself to his hands. He hopes it gets all over Lex’s shoes and ruins them. 

“As you already know, despite my acquittal, the LexCorp board is buying me out.”

Lex’s foot comes down on his hand, heel twisting across his fingers, efficiently breaking them. His scream is more like the howl of a wounded animal and leaves Clark hyperventilating. Cradling his broken hand to his chest, he’s not sure if he should try holding them or if it would only make it worse. That dilemma is solved the next moment when he’s kicked in the ribs. The edges of his vision turn black. 

“They say my 'public profile' is damaging the company!" Kick. "I’m not welcome at my own company anymore!" Kick. "I’m not welcome in my own city!" 

The weight of the situation presses down on Clark and he focuses on steadying his breathing. Gritting his teeth, he thinks there must be classes in goon school on how to make every injury hurt _more_ as the pair grab Clark's arms and drag him back to his feet. He took Lex down, so no matter how much he hurts, he’s going to stand up to him. “You dug this hole yourself, Lex. I’m not going to stop reporting the truth about you just because you bark at me in some dark alley.”

“And if I threaten your partner? I wouldn’t kill her, you know, I like Lois too much. But losing an arm…an eye…”

“Go to hell, Lex.”

Lex sighs and motions with his hand. "If you had simply agreed to my request, this whole business would be over."

Clark does his best to bite back his cry of pain when the backs of his knees are simultaneously kicked from behind by the guards, who allow him to fall to his knees, but not the ground. He's at a total loss how Bruce takes beatings like this, and yet is still out there night after night. Because _everything_ in Clark's body hurts.

"Now, well, I'm going to have to be a little more persuasive, aren't I?"

Clark tenses and tries to steel himself for whatever attack that statement heralds. It takes him a second to register that Lex is unzipping his pants as he talks, and a few more after that to figure out _why_. And the thought immediately after that is that he _must_ be wrong. 

Rao, please, _please_ let him be wrong. 

That desperate hope vanishes like smoke in the wind, and every rational thought is instantly replaced with unadulterated panic when Lex pulls out his cock, stroking his impressive erection as he steps forward. 

" _No_! Don't do this, Lex!" Clark tries to struggle free, but the sudden pressure he identifies as the barrel of a gun to the back of his head, freezes him in place.

"This is a three-for-deal. First, I'm getting what I should have back in Smallville. Second, I get to humiliate you like you did me. And finally, I get blackmail material for a rainy day." Drawing his phone from his pocket, Lex smirks. "I wonder what your colleagues would think? Perhaps they will question just how many stories you've gotten on your knees?"

"Lex, _please_."

"It's too late for begging, Clark. Remember, it's _your_ choice we ended up here." 

The tip of Lex's cock presses against his lips and Clark doesn't know how to react. No, that's not true. What he _wants_ to do is bite down hard enough to make sure Lex will have to pee through a bag the rest of his life. But as satisfying as that option would be, he has no doubt it'll only get him killed, because Lex doesn't bluff. 

There's no option except to open his mouth.

"There you go." Lex presses in. "And, Clark, in case you're having any ideas, you'll be sucking my cock until you make me come. It's really up to _you_ how long this lasts."

Clark wants to throw up at the thought of sucking anyone but Bruce's cock. Rao, _Bruce_. How is he supposed to—no. He immediately clamps down on the thought. If he's going to get through this alive, he _can't_ think about Bruce. Clark squeezes his eyes shut. 

It’s a nightmare. 

It’s not really happening. 

He’s not really on his knees, with a gun to his head, sloppily sucking the head of Lex’s cock. 

“Eyes open, Clark. I want to see those baby blues of yours.” 

Clark reluctantly opens his eyes. Never has he wanted his powers back as desperately as he does at that moment. With just a few seconds of heat vision, he could end it all. As no amount of wishing is going to make that happen, he instead does his best to make sure if anyone sees the video, they'll be able to tell from the look on his face, and in his eyes, that what they're watching is _not_ a consensual act. It's of little comfort.

Giving Lex a lobotomy would be infinitely more satisfying.

Fingers twist viciously in Clark’s hair and force his mouth down the shaft of Lex’s cock, until his face meets with the well manicured hairs at the base. Lex isn’t gentle; his fingers dig into Clark’s scalp, twist his hair and pull. His thrusts are negligent—casually brutal, carelessly stealing choice and breath from Clark’s chest, cock bludgeoning the back of his throat, making him gag and heave. 

Clark’s hand is an incandescent burning, an unbearable wrenching wrongness in every second, cradled as close to his chest as he can manage, constantly jostled by the ugly rhythm. Clark’s eyes begin to close, as he again tries to get away in the only way he can. Lex slaps him, sharply, before shoving forward again. It’s the first of many strikes. 

It’s a wonder he doesn’t bite down after all, a wonder he doesn’t throw up or pass out, helpless as he is to fight back against the seemingly unending torture. His nose is stuffed, his mouth is stuffed, his jaw is screaming from the stretch and continuous impact with Luthor’s unyielding pubic bone. Tears of rage and pain squeeze out to run down Clark’s face, along with snot and spit, and he’s utterly incapable of stopping them. 

_No_. It's all Clark can think, as he’s repeatedly jerked forward to allow Lex's cock the deepest possible penetration. _No, no, no, no. No._

He wants to give up, to beg for it to end, but he never gets that chance. It’s near to the limit of his mental endurance, his vision coming in sickening waves, his entire body an open nerve of pain, before there’s a muffled grunt above him and his head is held down. 

Clark gags, throat protesting the unendurable sensation of Lex’s cock pulsing inside him. Only to gag again as Lex pulls out. Then, adding insult to injury, Lex cleans the remaining come off by smearing it onto Clark's face. It's a power move to degrade and humiliate, and Clark knows that. It still works. _Again_ , he gags, trying desperately to purge his system and his mind, 

Lex tucks himself back in with no more consideration for Clark than he would have for discarded trash. "No more stories, Clark.”

“It won’t help you, Lex. You’ve fallen too far, dug yourself too deep. You’re finished,” Clark says, voice hoarse from having Lex's cock shoved down his throat, with a hell of a lot more bravado than he feels.

“I’m Lex Luthor. I’m _never_ finished.” 

This time when Clark hits the ground, his only priority is activating the distress beacon—that he's an absolute _idiot_ for not doing the moment there was a gun—hidden in his watch. He manages it, but only just, before the beating starts in earnest. 

Clark curls into himself; nothing but a ball of fear, agony and tears. For a split second, he registers something hard connecting with his skull. He feels a blinding pain behind his eyes, that then shoots through every nerve in his body like lightning. In the next instant, the world ceases to exist, and Clark _finally_ feels no pain.

* * *

_Ten minutes_. It takes Bruce ten minutes to get there after Clark’s distress beacon goes off. 

That’s a veritable lifetime in terms of what could happen to a depowered Kryptonian, with marginal fighting skills, who insists he'll just not get into fights in the first place. Bruce tried to explain that was all well and good in theory, but in reality, sometimes the fight picks you and your only options are to either defend yourself or take a beating. 

Bruce runs into the alleyway. “Clark!”

The tightness in Bruce’s chest increases tenfold when he lays eyes on Clark’s unmoving form. He falls to his knees, and with trembling fingers, checks for a pulse. 

It's thready, but there. 

Clark's _alive_. 

Now to keep him that way. Bruce does a cursory check for injuries he needs to address before calling for help. As his gaze flits across Clark's face, dread pools in his gut. The too wet lips, the red marks high on the cheekbones and disheveled hair all paint a picture. Bruce _knows_ what it means. Even if he could ignore his eyes, all it takes is a sniff to confirm the truth. "Oh, Kal. _No_." 

Fishing in his jacket, he pulls out a handkerchief and gently wipes the come off Clark's face. "I'm sorry," Bruce whispers. He wasn't there in time to prevent the violation, but he can at least do this much. 

After stuffing the soiled fabric away, Bruce takes a deep breath to steady his breathing and center himself before carefully gathering Clark into his arms. Tapping his com, he says, “Batman to Watchtower. Code blue. Protocol alpha.” 

The zeta beam encompasses them, and a moment later the dingy alley is gone, replaced by pristine walls. Turning towards the sound of footfalls, he sees Leslie rushing towards him with a gurney, and Bruce is grateful beyond measure that his godmother will be the one dictating treatment. 

“ _Christ_. What happened?” 

“I don’t know. I found him like this in an alley.” He places Clark on the gurney and, grabbing a side, helps steer it to the private medical bay created specifically to treat founders when their identities can’t be concealed. 

“I’ve got him,” Leslie says, giving Brucer’s hand a squeeze before entering the operating theater with Clark. 

Bruce stands there staring at the closed door. All he can think is _he_ isn’t supposed to be the one on this side of it. Clark _shouldn’t_ be in an operating room. He’s invulnerable. Except when he’s not. And what exactly does Bruce do with that? 

“Alfred, I’m on the Watchtower with Clark. He just went into surgery.” Screw his no names on com rule. It’s a secure line, and Bruce doesn’t want to deal with it. He doubts his brain can even process the needed adjustment right now anyway. Besides which, the breach in protocol will be glaring to Alfred, serving as clear a status update as if Bruce had actually given him one. “I need you to get Martha on a plane. Have Tim pull any camera footage from around the area and time of the beacon. I want to know who did this.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

“And prepare the medbay. I want to bring him home as soon as possible. Recovery will be easier on everyone that way. And, Alfred?"

"Sir?"

"Keep the kids there.” Again, he knows what he doesn't say speaks as loud, or louder, than what he does. Clark could die. And if that happens, Bruce needs to be alone for it. 

*

“B?” 

Bruce stops pacing at the familiar voice of Barbara in his ear. “I’m here.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.” 

“I took a peek at Luthor’s phone activity, seeing as nine out of ten times Clark’s injured, it’s that bald bastard's fault.”

“And?”

“Luthor did it.” She confirms.

“ _Fuck_." He punches the wall. "You’re certain?”

“Yeah…There’s, umm, a video.”

Bruce’s stomach drops and he closes his eyes for a moment. He’s going to need contingency plans. Although he thinks, _hopes_ , the man isn’t crazy enough to release video evidence of committing a crime. “Send it to me.”

“I—”

“Babs, I already know.” 

“What? _How_? No, actually, scratch that,” she says. “I don’t want to know. It didn’t take long to realize what the video was, and I still wanted to wash my eyes out with bleach. So _please_ , B, trust me when I say you _don’t_ want to see it.”

“Noted. Send the file.” Bruce looks down when his phone beeps and swipes on the message. He frowns. “This is only an audio file.” 

“Correct. That’s just for the bit I watched. If you want the video _after_ you listen, then I’ll send it.”

Bruce grumbles in annoyance and hits play. The file hardly starts before he sinks into a chair, hand over his mouth. It’s all Bruce can do to listen to the end. He wants to be sick. “Babs.” Deep breath. “You made the right call.”

“I’m _so sorry_ , B. Which is so fucking inadaquete, but what else is there?” She huffs. “Guess now I get why that’s all anyone said to me after.”

“Hnh.”

“I deleted the file off Luthor’s phone and the server. If he backed up to a SIM card, he was smart enough to remove it already. I left a worm that’ll watch for the file being loaded on any of his systems and will notify me. The only copy I have is saved to a USB key and locked in a safe. Just in case the original file is needed, because well, it’s Luthor.”

“Alright.” Bruce scrubs a hand over his face. He hadn’t lied to Babs, just neglected to mention he didn’t know who did it. Not for certain. Now he does, and Bruce hasn’t wanted to see someone dead this much in his life. Including Joe Chill. 

*

Bruce stares into a literal abyss, a black, eternal sky pocked with dead stars. He can’t think, and his heart aches so deeply that each beat feels like the last. The darkness is all-consuming. It’s the place where good things cannot thrive. This bloody pit of dread and terror, this engine that drives all hate, judgement, and fear.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting here, staring at a screen gone dark, lost in his equally dark thoughts, when a voice pulls him back. It still takes Bruce a moment to reorient himself enough to register the proffered cup of coffee, and that it’s Diana holding said cup. 

“I thought you could probably use it.”

Bruce accepts the mug and takes a large drink, hopeful it will bring his brain back online.

“Is there any news?”

“No.” 

“I have prayed to the gods on his behalf.”

“I hope they were listening.”

“Kal-El is strong. He will win this fight,” she says, not a trace of uncertainty in her voice. “I let the others know I would give them an update when one was available. And I explained to Barry that means he is _not_ to stop in.”

“Hnn.”

“If you need anything.” She squeezes Bruce’s shoulder and then heads for the door.

"There is one thing you can do for me, Diana."

"Anything."

"Don't let me kill Luthor,” he says. 

*

Bruce is instantly on his feet when the door to the operating room _finally_ opens. “Is he alive?”

“Yes,” Leslie says. “Although, he’s far from out of the woods.”

Sagging with profound relief, he thanks every god he can name. Life without Clark wouldn’t be life at all. He pushes that thought away and focuses. “Tell me what you found.”

“Clark suffered multiple broken ribs, one of which punctured his lung, making a tear in the pleural lining and damage to the parenchyma. This in turn created a tension pneumothorax. A chest tube was inserted to stabilize his breathing. All the fingers of his right hand and three of the left were broken. The radius and ulna of both arms and the tibia of his left leg were also fractured.”

“Defense injuries,” Bruce says. 

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. “We were able to set and splint all but the fingers of his right hand, which required surgery to properly reset, but somewhat miraculously, it didn’t require any pins. A lot of contusions. It’s hard to know for sure with the swelling, but it doesn’t look like any of the internal injuries will require surgery. Not that those aren’t bad, but they’re not the biggest issue facing us.”

Leslie takes a deep breath. “Clark suffered a depressed skull fracture with brain swelling and a cerebrospinal fluid leak. We removed a section of skull to try and relieve the pressure and address the seepage. For the moment, he's on a ventilator in an induced coma. Theoretically, less work for his systems means more resources can be allocated to healing.”

Bruce nods his understanding. “How long will it take to get him ready for transport?”

“Transport to where?” 

“The cave’s medbay. His recovery will be easier to manage there.” 

Leslie rubs her temples and blows out a breath. “Were you listening? Clark needs twenty-four hour monitoring and could require emergency surgery.”

“I promise you that Clark will _never_ be alone. And should surgery become necessary, I’ll immediately go to the Watchtower.”

“I understand what Clark means to you, I do—”

“I’m taking him home, Leslie. End of discussion.” Leslie looks at him like he’s lost his mind. She’s probably right. He doesn’t care. Clark gave him Power of Attorney, which gives Bruce the right to decide, and he’s taking Clark home.

—————————————

“Martha,” Bruce says, only to then find himself with an arm full of Ma Kent, who clings to him as if her life depends on it. Maybe not her life, but certainly her emotions. He hugs her close until he feels her grip relax. 

“Thank you for sending the plane.”

Having no idea what’s proper given the situation, he offers a little smile. “Of course.” 

“Grandma,” Tim says with uncertainty from a few feet away.

“Come here, Sweetheart.” Tim launches himself into her arms in response and she envelopes him in a hug. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.” Martha squeezes him close again. “How about we make a pie in a little bit?” After a moment's consideration, she adds, “That is, if you can commandeer part of the kitchen for us.”

“Yes!” Tim beams and then bolts for the stairs.

Bruce moves back into the room, taking up position at the foot of the bed. Pristine white bandages highlight every one of Clark’s injuries. The various tubes, machines and monitors only make it worse. The steady whoosh of the ventilator seems overly loud in the silence. Bruce knows it’s a gut wrenching sight.

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Choking down a sob, Martha gently touches Clark’s face. 

Her pain pierces Bruce through, but once again, he has no idea what proper protocol is. Hell, he’s not even sure there _is_ one. It’s a glaring oversight on his part that he didn’t ask Alfred for instructions _before_ she arrived.

“How long is he going to…”

“Leslie thinks a week, week and a half, and she’ll be able to stop the medication that’s keeping him in the coma.”

Even after handing her tissue, Bruce pretends not to notice her crying. He knows Martha prefers to always seem to be calm and collected, as a pillar of strength, no matter the situation. It’s a character trait they share.

“I’m so sorry, Martha.”

“For what? You didn’t do this.”

“I wasn’t _there_. Clark called for me and it took me _ten minutes_ to get to him.” He clenches his fists at his side.

“Now you listen to me,” Martha says and grabs his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know taking the world on your shoulders is part of being a hero, but this is _not_ your fault, Bruce.” 

“I keep thinking if I had just been faster.”

“Thinking like that won’t get you anywhere. You want someone to blame, then you blame the one who actually did this to him. And that piece of crap who killed Conner and who is the reason Clark’s without his powers in the first place.”

“Language,” Bruce teases. 

“Thinking about that Earth-2 megalomaniac just boils my blood. If Clark had his powers....” 

“I know.”

“It’s just, I never thought I’d see him like this, after...last time,” She says with a hitch, and dabs at her eyes. 

He looks towards the bed, giving Martha a chance to collect herself. “Clark, your mother is trying to get access to the kitchen. _Again_. She recruited Tim to the cause, who has no doubt drafted Cass, and she can probably sway Dick. Normally three-to-one would be good odds. Except against Alfred,” he says. “They don’t stand a chance.” 

“Don’t listen to him, Clark," Martha says. “I have full confidence in my grandchildren.” 

“Whereas I think it’s a good thing I’m not a pie person.”

Martha laughs. “You’re a good man, Bruce. A good husband.” 

“You know we’re not—” 

“Hogwash,” she says. “The two of you are as married as Jonathan and I ever were. A piece of paper is just that. A piece of paper.” The look she shoots Bruce is a clear warning to think twice before contradicting that statement. 

He says nothing, because there’s nothing _to_ contradict. She's right and they both know it. And as soon as Bruce can once again look into the beautiful blue eyes he loves so much—especially when full of happiness, love or passion—he's going to make damn sure Clark knows it too.

—————————————

Bruce scrutinizes the untouched slice of homemade apple pie in his hand as if it might provide some answers. It doesn't. He shakes his head ruefully and sets the plate down on the small bedside table. “I’m certain bringing me some is their way of keeping an eye on me without asking. Prevents me from being able to just say ‘fine’ and send them away. And it _would_ be clever, except for the fact I don’t eat pie. 

"Speaking of which, your mom and Alfred apparently worked out some sort of truce. Considering how sacrosanct the 'no one but Alfred uses the kitchen' rule is, I don't think I want to know the details. And yes, I did a quick headcount to make sure none of the kids were offered up as a sacrifice." 

With a soft huff of laughter, he adds, "I hope you can hear us. I'd rather not have to repeat three weeks worth of conversations.” In truth, it wouldn't take Bruce long to reiterate every word, as he mostly sits in silent vigil. There are days he’s still floored by their relationship, which didn’t have the most auspicious of beginnings. For one, Clark ate all the cookies. But it grew and strengthened over time. Now Clark is his beacon in the night and his sun in the day. And he knows that without Clark’s unending optimism, he’d have lost himself to the darkness long ago. 

Unable to even hold Clark’s hand because of the splints, Bruce instead draws symbols on Clark’s wrist with his thumb. “ _Nahn rraop :diviltiv iovis krymodh khuhp bykhuhs dovrroshtiv_ ," he says. 

"I no longer know how to live in a world without you, Kal.”

He _won't_. 

He _refuses_ to. 

He _will_ fix it. Not that Bruce knows how just yet, but he’ll find a way. 

It’s as simple as that. 

—————————————

When you fall in love, you do just that: you fall. 

The loss of control implicit in that _terrified_ Bruce, so realizing he was in love came as a complete surprise. He didn’t see it coming until the waves came crashing down without any hint of halt. Far too late to realize he was already under too deep to ever rise above them.

But now, because of Clark, he understands that loving someone comes with the risk of knowing that they can completely destroy you, but you take the chance anyway. Feeling more hope than fear. _That’s_ what love really is. A hope and faith within someone other than yourself. 

Hope is all that’s keeping Bruce going.

Looking up from his screen, he finds Alfred, Tim and Martha standing together, staring at him. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“On the contrary, Master Bruce, I sincerely hope that you will.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, plain as a question. 

Tim answers, “The _only_ explanation for all the time you’ve spent reading from the Kryptonian database crystal is that you're planning to use tech onboard the scout ship."

“You’re right, it is.”

Positively beaming with pride, Tim continues, “So, the closest landing site to the Fortress with zeta beam access is point Charlie. The plan is to send a plane there via autopilot, and once it arrives, you beam in with Clark. That'll reduce the flight to just a few hours, which lessens the odds that a medical emergency happens en route.”

“And from there, I will assume remote command of the aircraft, that you may focus on attending to Master Clark.”

"We knew you'd do it all alone if left to your own devices," Martha says. 

"Probably," Bruce admits with half a smile. “Sounds like the bases are covered. Let's get moving.”

—————————————

“Scan complete. Injuries analyzed.”

“Tell me there is something in here that can heal them?”

“There is not.”

“Fuck." Bruce scrubs a hand over his face. "I was so sure the answer was here.” 

“There is a high probability the commander’s injuries can be healed using the Birthing Chamber,” the ship offers helpfully.

"You could have led with that." 

"That was not what you asked." 

He takes in a long, slow breath through his nose, and stomps down the overwhelming desire to argue semantics with an inorganic object. “No, I suppose it wasn’t.” 

—————————————

Most people believe that the defining tragedy of Bruce’s life was the loss of his parents, but they don’t know—will never see the suit memorialized in the glass display. And save for a few, they can't ever know. That the suffocating darkness of his life is that of a parent who failed his child. _Twice_. 

The universe can fuck off if it thinks Bruce is going to sit idly by and watch his husband die. _Again_. There's simply no reality out there in which he'd allow the darkness to claim another person he loves. 

Bruce gently places Clark, naked except for the bandages, in the capsule. He then carefully unwraps the strappings and removes the splints. The hope of a Kryptonian solution is precisely why he risked taking Clark to the middle of Antarctica in the first place. And thanks to the ship, he has one. 

But, breathing mask in hand, Bruce hesitates. He can think of one way to fail Clark so spectacularly that death would instead become a release. 

“Ship, just to be absolutely clear. This process _can't_ result in a Deformity, if for no other fact than there’s only one genetic code present, correct?”

“Yes. That is one reason a Deformity is an impossible outcome. And the capsule will only fill with the fluid used inside an embryo,” the ship reassures. “The commander is in no danger.”

He secures Clark's mask in place, then kisses his forehead, and whispers, “Come _back_ to me, Kal. _:Zhaolodh khahp rrup_." 

Bruce straightens and nods, watching as the clear top slides closed, before the chamber floods, submerging Clark.

—————————————

There's nothing more Bruce can do to prepare. He's already spread a blanket out on the floor, and put a neatly folded stack of towels on the edge of it. This gives him a place to lay Clark down and a way to wipe the embryonic fluid off.

Sitting on the floor with his head against the wall, Bruce resists the urge to break his self-imposed rule against asking the ship for an update more than once an hour. He refuses to sound like a child in a car on their way to grandma’s house asking ‘are we there yet’ every five minutes.

A quick glance tells him there’s still been no visual change in status. “You know, Kal, I’ve never told you how I just woke up one day and realized it was _you_. That it had _been you_ for a long time,” Bruce says. “I woke up and realized that if I could have you by my side everyday for the rest of time, I’d be the luckiest person in the world.”

He huffs a little laugh. “Your Ma informed me that you and I are married in her eyes. I didn’t argue with her. Even so, I swear that when you wake up, Kal, I’m going to give you a ring and ask properly. The only catch is, you have to wake up.”

The alarm on his watch beeps, signaling the passing of another hour. "Ship, status update?"

“Process complete. Now draining the capsule.”

Bruce scrambles to his feet. Waiting for the lid to release is the worst torture he's ever experienced, and that’s saying somehing. _Finally_ the top slides back. After removing the breathing mask, he gathers Clark into his arms, and then settles them both down on the blanket. 

“It's okay, Kal. I've got you. You're safe.” Grabbing a towel, Bruce gently wipes Clark’s face clean and then brushes his hair back, the goo making it easy to create the Superman style, spit curl and all. Bruce watches and waits.

And waits.

Clark doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Bruce’s blood runs cold and dread pools in his gut. “Kal...I _need_ you to open your eyes for me, okay?” 

The only movement remains the even rise and fall of Clark’s chest. “Ship! Give me the status of the commander’s injuries," Bruce barks. 

“All injuries were successfully healed.”

“Then _why_ isn’t he awake?”

“Unknown,” the ship replies. And for having programming that doesn't include emotions, Bruce thinks the ship sure seems to express a lot of them. Like just now, he could swear the answer was laced with concern. But all the concern in the world isn’t going to explain why Clark hasn’t opened his eyes. 

“Come on God damnit—come _back_ to me.” 

Bruce’s heart is in his throat, watching as Clark's eyes slowly flutter open. "Yes, that's it, Kal.”

“Water…” Clark rasps.

"Just a little," Bruce instructs, placing the water glass to Clark's mouth so he can take a sip. 

Clark licks his lips, swallows thickly, and tries again. “Where am I?”

“On the ship.”

“The ship?” 

From the look of confusion on his face, it’s clear Clark has no idea what’s going on. Bruce berates himself for failing to plan for that possibility. Between the head injury and the coma, he _should_ have. And as saying they're on board a Kryptonian scout ship will only make it worse, he goes with the safer answer. "It’s a special medical facility."

"Is that..uh...why I'm naked and covered in...goo?" Clark's face blushes bright red, including his ears and neck. 

"Yes. You've been in a coma," Bruce says, tone clinical in an attempt to make things less awkward, as if that was possible. God, he wishes he could just bang his head against the wall, what with his lack of foresight continuing to make havoc of the situation and all. 

“What happened?”

"Accident." Bruce will be damned if he's going to explain what happened with Luthor. If Clark remembers on his own, fine. If not, he'll consider it a blessing and move on. Some things are better left forgotten.

“Who am I?" he asks with a frown.

"Your name is Clark...Clark Kent." He forces a reassuring smile. "And I'm Bruce."

Clark starts to smile back, but then grabs his head, crying out in pain.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He pulls Clark tight to his chest, terrified that the source of the pain might prove fatal, and just keeps holding on.

"It's been a year, Bruce. How do you still manage to forget I need to breathe?" he demands, squirming in Bruce's arms.

"Kal?" Bruce's heart skips a beat.

Clark lifts his hand and cups the side of Bruce's face. "Hello, _:zhaote_."

Turning into the touch, he kisses Clark's palm. "I'm so sorry, Kal."

"For what? Did you do something I haven't remembered yet?" With a thoughtful look, he arches his brows. "What if I accept and _then_ realize what I should have done was never let you live it down?"

In response, Bruce rolls his eyes, cups the back of Clark's head and pulls him into a searing kiss. Clark gasps, mouth falling open as he mashes their lips together, tongue delving into Clark's mouth, tasting every part of it, filling it, _devouring_ it as if starving. 

It's enthralling.

Bruce makes no attempt at restraint, pouring all the feelings that threaten to overwhelm him, into the kiss. He doesn’t want to stop; Clark is _back_ with him—alive, whole, memory intact—and that is _everything_. Finally, grudgingly, he makes himself give up those lips, and with a gasp, breaks away.

Chest heaving, Clark leans in close, sharing the same air, until his breathing is steady again. And then, looking up, he flashes Bruce a radiant smile. 

"So," Clark says. "About that ring." 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Nahn rraop :diviltiv iovis krymodh khuhp bykhuhs dovrroshtiv._ (You’re the light that guides me through the darkness)  
>  _:Zhaolodh khahp rrup_ (I love you)  
>  _:Zhaote_ (My love)
> 
> For those of you going "wait a minute.." at the Lex & Clark in the alley scene, no, you’re not going crazy 😁 When Superbat Week came around, I only had dialogue at that point for [Everyman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339865) , so I stole it to see what happened if I went really dark with how it all played out, which is what this is.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! All comments and kudos are appreciated <3


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